


In Sickness and In Health

by sparxwrites



Category: The Tomorrow People (2013)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Sick Stephen, Sickfic, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It starts in the middle of the night, as a buzz on the edge of her telepathic hearing, irritating – like a bee that’s crawled into her mind that she just can’t get out."</p><p>Based on a prompt from the <a href="http://tomorrow-kink.livejournal.com/455.html">Tomorrow People kink meme</a>: Stephen/Cara/John - Sickness h/c - Stephen is hurt or sick and it's up to John and Cara to take care of him since his mom and brother are out of town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness and In Health

It starts in the middle of the night, as a buzz on the edge of her telepathic hearing, irritating – like a bee that’s crawled into her mind that she just can’t get out. She tosses, turns, pushes a finger into either ear to try and block it out, clear out the noise, but it doesn’t work. The noise continues, low and irritating and unstoppable.

“Cara?” murmurs John, voice thick and sleepy against her throat where he’s curled close to the warmth of her, seeking heat. “Y’okay?”  
“Fine,” she says, a little distractedly – she knows he hears it in her voice, because he curls closer still, throws an arm over her waist and kisses her collarbone. “Just- there’s something  _buzzing_.”

He huffs out a small noise of amusement.  _In here?_  he asks, mental voice just as slow and sleep-heavy as his physical one.  
 _Yes_ , she says, and feeds him the best approximation of the buzzing that she can. It’s a low, fuzzy whine, something like what she imagines flashes of colour would sound like, and John recoils from it despite the loss of warmth.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wrinkling his nose and reluctantly opening his eyes to look at her through the darkness. “I get the idea, stop already.” It’s only when she quietens the noise that he curls back to her, forehead against the hollow of her throat, the scruff he refuses to shave rough against the skin just above her breasts. “It’s probably Stephen or something. Maybe he wants some  _alone time_.”

She laughs a little at the thought, and he makes a low noise somewhere between a huff and an answering laugh. “Tell him to shut up, and go to sleep.”  
“Bossy,” she answers, resting her chin on top of his head, but she reaches out to Stephen anyway. The buzzing gets stronger, and she frowns her irritation. _Stephen_ , she sends,  _Stephen, shut up. I’m trying to sleep. If you want me to stay out all you have to do is ask._

As she pulls back, the noise eases, until by the time she’s back in her own head it’s almost silent. There’s no apology from Stephen, though – perhaps he didn’t even realise he was doing it. She forgets, sometimes, that despite the progress he’s made and the things he’s done, he’s still a relatively new breakout.

“Quiet?” asks John, and she nods her assent. “Good. Sleep.”  
“You don’t control me,” she says, quietly, running a hand through his hair, and he rumbles low in his chest in something that could be read as agreement.  
“No, but  _I_  want to sleep. And you’re wriggling.”

“Fair enough,” she murmurs, kissing his forehead and drawing him closer, draping a leg across his sleep. “Fine. I’ll try. But only because you asked so nicely.”  
“Good,” he says, and within five minutes his breathing has evened and slowed, his telepathic voice quietened to near-unreadable.

Without Ultra training and a long history of sleep deprivation on her side, it takes Cara a little longer to fall back to sleep. She’s not quite sure how long it _does_  take, but with John pressed against her like a human octopus, it doesn’t take long.

When she wakes in the morning, the buzzing is worse.

She bolts upright with a hiss, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead and curling over. It’s not just noise any more, it’s pictures as well – too-bright shapes that make no sense, overexposed colours, chaotic movement just a millisecond out of time with the buzzing – and she swears quietly under her breath.

“Cara?” asks John, and she squints up and to the side, grabbing at the cup of coffee floating helpfully by her head.  
“Stephen,” she answers, tightly, taking a deep gulp of caffeine in the hope it’ll ease the building headache in her temples. “ _Again_. God, it’s like he’s- drunk, or hung over, or something.” She takes another mouthful of coffee, and pushes her shields a little higher to try and minimise the buzzing. “Or stoned.”

It took her a moment to realise John hasn’t says anything. She sits up, more awake and with the buzzing toned down a little, and looks at him quizzically – appreciating his lack of shirt as she does so, the solid planes of his chest and the soft trail of hair down to his belt, wondering if they can put off searching for new breakouts long enough to have a lie-in.

“He could be drugged,” says John, slowly, and that idea goes flying out the window as she reads the concern on his face.

He must read the alarm in her eyes, because he continues after a half-second’s pause. “When I was with Ultra, they… Before the D-chips and the suppressor cuffs, they were trying to work out if they could suppress our powers with drugs. Normal stuff. They gave this one girl painkillers – opiates, or morphine, something – and her head…” He sighs. “It was a little bit like what you’re describing.”

She’s pushing herself out of bed before he’s even finished talking, fishing new clothes out of the mess that is their shared chest of drawers and dragging a shirt over her head. “We need to find him, then,” she says, digging around for a pair of jeans, tossing a t-shirt in John’s general direction.

“You read my mind,” he says, snorting at his own joke as he drags his shirt on, before sighing. “I was sort of hoping for a lazy morning in, but… Stephen.”

“But Stephen,” she agrees, a little exasperatedly, doing her belt buckle up and pulling a shirt on, finding her jacket where she’d discarded it next to the bed and slipping it on. Her hair’s a mess, but that’s slightly inevitable – she drags her fingers through it and scrapes it back in a ponytail, wishes she had time to shower, but if John’s right then Stephen takes priority over showers.

By the time she’s done, John’s just finished pulling on his shirt. “Ready?” he asks, dragging a hand through his hair like Cara, only spiking it up instead of smoothing it down.  
“Ready,” she agrees, offering him her arm. He takes it, curling fingers around her wrist, and offers her a slightly anxious smile before teleporting the pair of them out.

They land a street away from Stephen’s house, walk the rest of the way in the weak morning sunshine in order to try and avoid people noticing. There’s no car parked in the driveway, and John looks at Cara, frowning. “He’s definitely in there?”

“Definitely,” she says. “I can hear him. The static’s not as loud, but it’s still there.” She steps forward and rings the doorbell… and then they wait.

It takes nearly three minutes – by which time John’s pacing, anxious, impatient, ready to teleport in there and damn the consequences – before Cara decides that, if Stephen’s even in there at all, he’s probably the only one.

(And probably not capable of opening the door, given the lack of answer, which is more than a little alarming.)

 _Stephen_? she tries, one last time, projecting the inquiry out as loud as she can towards the house. John gives her a look, which she ignores, listening for an answer, and letting out a low, frustrated noise edging into a growl when the only response she gets is static. “He’s not answering. I’m not even sure he’s in there, but…”

“But we’ve got to check,” finishes John, nodding. “Right.” He drags an anxious hand through his hair, and then offers her his hand – it’s easier if he teleports for both of them, when they’re trying to land in a small space and might need to leave in a hurry if there’s someone else there. It reduces the risk of them knocking each other over on arrival too.

She doesn’t take it immediately; instead, she rests a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, the contact melting some of the tension out of his muscles. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she says, gently, sliding her fingers down his arm to take his hand.

He frowns, but doesn’t say anything, wrapping an arm around her waist instead and teleporting them both inside.

The entrance hall’s empty – thank goodness, otherwise there would have been some awkward explaining to do – and John lets go of Cara, looking to her for guidance. “Upstairs,” is all she says, gesturing to the ceiling. “The static’s fading a little, but it’s still there.” He nods, biting at his lip, and follows her up the stairs.

They find Stephen, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, in a bathroom.

He certainly looks drugged; his eyes are hazy, red-rimmed where he’s slumped against the cool of the toilet, cheek pressed against its rim, and when John grabs his shoulders his flinch back is delayed by over a second.

“Stephen?” says John, voice urgent, grabbing Stephen’s chin with careful fingers in an attempt to get the other man to make eye contact. “Hey, Stephen, look at me. Stephen? What did they give you?”  
“Hnng?” It’s not exactly coherent, and Stephen’s usually sharp eyes are unfocused when they meet John’s, but it’s very definitely a noise of confusion.

Cara looks around the room – at the medicine cabinet thrown open, the packs of decongestant pills and ibuprofen that’s been left lying in the sink beneath it – and frowns. “I don’t think he’s been drugged, John,” she says, slowly, holding up the pack of decongestants. “Just sick.”

“Flu,” confirms Stephen, voice thick and clumsy due to his blocked nose, bleary eyes focusing on Cara with a little effort. “S’fine, I ’s just… thought I ‘s gonna be sick…” He gestures vaguely towards the toilet, before letting his eyes slip closed again, tipping forward until his forehead is resting on John’s shoulder. “Wha’s goin’ on…?”

Something between relief and amusement washes over John’s face, and he brings a hand up to card through Stephen’s sweat-damp hair in slow, gentle motions, until the other man’s breathing slows a little. “Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. “Cara was picking up some psychic static from you, and we thought Ultra’d done something.”

“Oh.” Stephen’s voice is little more than a mumble, lips barely moving as if even that is too much effort. “Sorry.”  
“It’s okay,” says Cara evenly, smiling despite the concern in her eyes. “You can’t help it when you’re sick.” She pauses, frowning as she realises that she, John, and Stephen are the only people she can sense in the house. “Stephen, where’re your mom and brother?”

There’s silence, until John taps Stephen’s shoulder, and he reluctantly grinds out, “Away. Luca… football tournament. F’r th’ weekend. Mom’s staying with ‘m.”  
“She left you alone like this?” asks Cara, and Stephen shakes his head slowly.  
“W’s only a cold las’ night. Din’ feel this bad.”

“Right.” John drags a hand through his hair, glancing over at Cara. “Well,” he says, quietly, “we can at least get him back into bed, right? Stephen. Hey, Stephen. Did you take any of the pills?” Stephen shakes his head, and Cara feels the relief that washes through John – she’s fairly sure Stephen’s in no fit state to be following medication instructions. “Right. Okay. Do you still feel sick?” Another head shake.

John glances up at Cara, something between exasperation and resignation in his eyes. “I’ll get him into bed if you get some water and drugs for him,” he says, sighing at the way Stephen’s steadily falling into him, collapsing forward in slow-motion like John’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Nodding, Cara eyes the pair of them, before disappearing in a fracture of light.

“Cara?” Stephen doesn’t look up from where his face is pressed against John’s shoulder, but there’s a definite note of alarm in his voice, entire body flinching a little. “Cara?!”  
“Shh,” mutters John, hooking one of Stephen’s arms around his shoulders, sliding his own under Stephen’s armpits to hoist him up slowly, with a little help from his telekinesis. “S’okay. Cara’s coming back, don’t worry. She’s just gone to get you some water, okay?”

“Oh,” mumbles Stephen quietly, his head dropping sideways to, yet again, rest on John’s shoulder, his legs barely supporting his weight. “Okay. Where w’ goin’?”  
“Bed,” says John, firmly. “C’mon, you can walk. I can’t carry you all the way there.” Technically, he could, he knows, but he’s not going to tell Stephen that.

Their progress is slow and halting – a four-legged, two-armed, lurching monstrosity trying to navigate out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and into Stephen’s bedroom – but they manage it. John’s never been more grateful for his telekinesis.

Cara returns a minute or so after John’s finally managed to deposit Stephen in the bed, while he’s still trying to extricate himself from the octopus-like embrace Stephen had immediately wrapped him in. Apparently, Stephen likes to cuddle when he’s ill.

“Cute,” she says, and John growls at her, trying to un-clamp Stephen’s fingers from where they’ve wound themselves around the edge of his jacket, before giving up. “Can you get him sat up?” She’s balancing a cup of water in one hand and a cup of what smells like soup in the other, two boxes of pills making her pocket bulge.

“Maybe,” mutters John, changing his efforts from escaping to getting Stephen to sit up with him, without much more success. “I’d like to see  _you_  try,” he huffs, in response to Cara’s laughter, but it’s good-natured – and a moment later, she’s setting the water and soup down on Stephen’s desk to help him, sliding hands under Stephen’s armpits to hoist him up.

Stephen mumbles at the shift in position, says something that might be, “You could have just asked,” although it’s hard to tell through the congestion. His eyes are still bright and glassy with fever, but they’re heavy-lidded too, high spots of colour on his cheeks contrasting sharply against his otherwise pallid face – Cara’s reasonably certain he’s in no fit state to sit up by himself.

Eventually, though, they manage to get him sat up, leaning against the headboard and squinting at the pair of them as John finally manages to extricate himself and Cara goes to retrieve the glass of water she’d abandoned. “Why’re y’ here?” he asks, quiet and confused, reaching up one hand that feels too heavy for his body to drag through sweat-soaked hair.

“We’ve been over this,” sighs John, sat cross-legged on the bed just out of arm’s reach. “Your telepathy went weird. Cara was worried about you.”  
Cara throws him a withering look, perching next to Stephen on the bed. “No,  _I_ picked it up. You were the one worrying.”  
Stephen looks between them, frowning a little, before ducking his head. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Di’n’ mean to.”

“It’s okay,” says Cara, easily, touching his cheek to get him to look at her. “You couldn’t help it. Do you think you could take these for me, though?” There are two pills balanced in the middle of her palm, a glass of water proffered in her other hand.

Stephen reaches for them, leans forward – and ends up grasping at Cara’s shoulder in an effort to not crumple forward, fingers tight in her shirt. “Um. Might- need some help,” he manages, and Cara suspects if he wasn’t so flushed already he’d be blushing. She beckons to John who, after wrinkling his nose and making reluctant expressions about getting anywhere within range of Stephen’s potential octopus-like grip, shuffles over and helps Stephen sit up.

Between them – Stephen slumped against John, John’s arm around his shoulders, Cara holding the water and feeding him one pill at a time – they get him to swallow the medication, get about half the water drunk. When Cara presses the cup to his lips once more, he bats at it with a hand he can barely lift, eyes hardly open more than a sliver. “No,” he mumbles, shaking his head and fighting to keep it from lolling forward. “No, sleep…”

“You should probably eat something,” coaxes John, shifting his grip and pulling Stephen up a little higher, a little closer. “Cara made you soup. You should feel blessed, she  _never_  cooks. You’re really going to turn that down?”

“Soup?” Stephen doesn’t look at him, staring unfocusedly at the duvet, but he sounds thoughtful.  
“You can sleep right after,” promises Cara, getting up to set the water down and switch out for a cup of soup. “I promise.”  
“…’Kay.” Stephen nods, shivering a little against John before pressing a hand to his nose and sneezing, hard and repeatedly. By the time the sneezing fit’s over, he’s breathless and confused, and Cara can’t help but grin.

She presses the cup to his lips when he’s got his breath back, one of John’s hands threaded through his hair to keep his head upright, and he sips the tomato soup slowly, like it’s an effort just to stay awake.

In the end, despite Cara’s encouraging murmurs and John’s hand rubbing circles on his back, Stephen manages about half the cup before he turns away, burying his head in John’s shoulder. “Stop,” he mumbles, sleepily. “No’ hungry. Wan’ sleep.” After a moment’s pause, he adds, “Sorry,” on the end, as if it’s somehow his fault.

“It’s okay,” says Cara, smiling. “It’s okay.” She gets up, sets the cup on the desk next to the water and goes back to the bed. “Just lie down, you should feel better when you wake up.”  
“Mmh.” Stephen relaxes further against John as the other man helps him slump down against the bed, huffing out a quiet, tired breath. “Stay? Both ‘f y’. Pl’s?”

Cara throws John a look at the brush of his mind against hers.  _Can we stay_? he asks, and she frowns at him where he’s yet again tightly clutched in Stephen’s grip, sighing and looking more resigned to his fate than beforehand.  _I mean – the others need us_.

 _…Maybe Russell can take care of things_ , she says, thoughtfully.  _Just for one night_. Glancing again at Stephen shivering and still a little fever-flushed, she shakes her head.  _I’m not sure it’s a good idea to leave him alone tonight anyway_.  
 _I can hear you_. Stephen’s mental voice is fuzzy, but it’s a little clearer than his physical one – and at least the piercing static is gone. “Jus’…  Please?”

“We’ll stay,” promises John, running a soothing hand through Stephen’s hair as Cara moves back over to the bed, slipping in on the opposite side to John and lying down next to Stephen, touching his shoulder gently when he startles at the dip of the bed. “Don’t worry.”

“Promise?”

John and Cara both smile. “Promise,” they murmur, kissing a cheek each, and lying curled gently around Stephen as he allows himself to drift off to sleep, safe and warm.


End file.
